


Patron Saint Hunter

by businessghost



Category: Original Work
Genre: One Shot, Religion, my inner monologue about a very specific subject
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/businessghost/pseuds/businessghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My thoughts on my ancestral home town and the destroying of its beloved patron saint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patron Saint Hunter

I come from a tiny town in rural Italy. Well, I should say, that my ancestors hail from such a place. All of my mother's side, to be exact. Yeah, it's safe to say that some inbreeding happened in the further branches of my family tree. I had heard about this town all my life: Monacalioni. I had also heard legends and seen paintings of its single claim to fame, a mummified Christian martyr, a young girl beatified- Santa Benedetta. She was a full corpse displayed in a glass coffin, laid somewhat gruesomely out in fine robes, holding a chalice.

I visited Monacalioni in the summer of 2015, shortly following the yearly festival held in the honor of the saint. I had the best experience there that could have been conceived of. There may be a slight chance that some angel/lifetime movie director actually set the whole thing up. We arrived late in the afternoon, driving up the winding hill to a town that none of my family had ever seen. My mother was the 2nd generation removed from Monacilioni, and though my grandfather had gone back to visit, he was born in New York. So with great excitement we, my mother, father, and twin sister, posed in front of the road sign declaring the name of the town.

We drove into town and clambered out of the rental car, exploring the small town square. On a monument for World War 1 soldiers we found our surname, and other family names. Across the street we could see the small chapel where a picture of my great-aunt Carmen had been taken sometime in the 60's. We climbed a short ways up the main street to her old apartment, and upon discovering the door, snapped a picture. We walked back down towards the square and stopped in at what must have been the equivalent of the village CVS. In the slanting golden light old men could be seen in the square playing cards. Women with olive complexions and tightly curled hair squinted through sunbaked faces and swapped stories in a language I could hardly comprehend. Any of the men could have been my late grandfather. The eyes that shone out from each furrowed brow among the women were the eyes of my grandmother.

We ducked inside the drugstore, where we accosted a bored twentysomething with our genealogical questions. After collectively banging our heads against the language barrier for a few minutes, our saving grace entered the scene. He was a stooped man with a hooked nose wearing a nice polo shirt and slacks. His large glasses and thin face gave him the appearance of being more eyes than anything else, the effect of him was quiet knowledge and wisdom, the way you might imagine a perfect side character in a movie about rediscovering your roots. I should think that if it were a lifetime movie, he would remind me more of my Grandpa. But all the men there did anyway. I was so surrounded in paternal surrogates that it hardly mattered how he looked. What mattered was what he spoke. English. In a rural town ensconced on a hillside, English was not so common. After all, they had no Pope souvenirs or t-shirts to sell us.

He assessed the situation quickly and rescued the counter boy from the trouble of our further company. He introduced himself as Nick, and as we walked back to our car with him he asked if we were going to the party. We were a little confused, but it seemed that everyone in town was at a party on an overlook high above their homes celebrating... something. Without much discussion we piled into our car, and Nick followed along. We drove slowly out of the main town, catching the eye of the watchful townspeople as we went. He guided us to the Bosque, a forest with a small guardhouse and approximately half the population of Monacilioni. I could be over exaggerating slightly. It was about 200 people, which is really more like a third of the population. 

The people there were certainly partying, and had been all day. Surveying the scene was a short man in a pink polo (the mayor, we later learned), and the older men of the town.  My fearless mother approached them, unfolding a massive family tree as she did so. While my mother sought her answers, my sister, father, and I were treated to free wine (they didn't seem to care that my sister and I were 15), freshly grilled bacon sandwiches, and the spectacle of my distant relatives getting down on the outdoor dancefloor. Some even mounted a picnic table and danced lewdly together, giving rise to riotous and definitely drunk laughter from everyone else. I wasn't so sure how to broach this environment, dance being yet another language I am not fluent in. Then, a pole was brought out, and the partiers began to play limbo. This, I knew how to do. So my first impression upon the people of Monacilioni was made whilst bent over backwards. I went the lowest of all the participants, and heard cheers around me as I finally flipped forward onto my knees, triumphantly scuffed.

After that, I was simply absorbed into the crowd. We danced in a conga line through the old guard house, we danced together breathlessly and without reservations. It was one of the table-dancers from earlier who took a special interest in me, possibly because he didn't meet many new people who were also teenaged girls. We wove together through the dancers, and I strung together the few Italian phrases I knew to ask his name. It was Salvadore (I'm just saying, this is perfect script material for a c-list movie), but of course, with my overwhelming propensity for gayness and our probable cousinship, we only danced. 

From the part Nick treated us to dinner in another nearby hill town, though this one breached the thousands in population. We ate fresh pasta and homemade sauce naught but a few kilometers from where my great-grandparents were born. The experience was surreal, including the car ride back to Monacalioni during which we all learned a few new swears in Italian, courtesy of Nick. 

We returned to our hotel in the nearby city of Campobasso for the night, and returned the next morning. We reconnected with some of my mother's newfound kinfolk and explored the land that once belonged to our ancestors. There were no more Iousues left living in the town, but they abounded in the town cemetery, along with Nasellas and Grecos. We found a mausoleum bearing all of our family names, and caskets belonging to my aunt Carmen and her family members. We walked silently back to the rental and drove once again to the town square. We entered the town hall, the only building with a copy maker that could be used to copy some town documents out for us. We found ourselves in the mayor's office with the only other English-speaking man in Monacilioni, Nick's good friend Sam. After a thorough and intimidating questioning about our intentions (Sam looked a lot less frail than Nick, and he had a much better Chicago mobster accent) we were accepted to be about as dangerous as a family of four tourists typically is. 

Sam led us to the chapel in the town square, where we were to experience the piece de resistance of our trip. We would meet Santa Benedetta. Inside the church was not grand. But her chamber, just off the main worship area, was. Dressed in rich robes and wearing a crown, the mummified face of a young girl stared out at us. She was probably a teenager killed during the Christian massacres of the Roman Empire. As the Catholic Church spread, it became more important to have a martyr or saint in your town or church. Santa Benedetta was much sought-after, but all the seekers had one small issue. She would not be moved. She was anchored to the ground as if an immovable stone lay on top of her. Until, that is, a party from Monacilioni arrived to bring her back to their home. They found she was light as air, and carried her through their streets to their church. Horses and animals bowed in her presence, and each year the process was repeated. The saint was paraded through the streets and her wealth was slowly amassed. Even though the town was in dire financial straits by the time I visited her cache was untouched. The reverence for their saint was unmarred.

I could only stand in the presence of this legend and stare. She adorned the tombstones of my family members, though they were buried thousands of miles away from that place. We had paintings of her, showing her in all her beatific glory, through still reclining in a glass coffin. She belonged to these people and them to her, but I felt that perhaps she belonged to me too. And that, likewise, I was hers. We dropped a 20-Euro note in the collection basket at the door of the church and exited in relative silence. WE lingered in the square, but were soon sent off, packing rare Monacilioni postcards and a keychain bearing not the seal of the town (A monk dancing in the reach of a fearsome lion0 but the countenance of Santa Benedetta.

Not a year after my visit to Monacilioni, something tragic happened to the quiet town that stood so unreachable on its hilltop perch. Santa Benedetta was toppled from her pedestal, her golden circlet and chalice stolen, and her sacred body destroyed. The lifeblood of the town was defiled. When my mother informed me of the transgression I was appalled. I felt attacked, though I had only seen her once. My cultural identity hinged upon her, upon that village, and it was disrespected to the utmost. The townspeople, with whom I had danced in the dark of a summer evening, had their pride damaged. The thief has not been accosted yet, and the people of Monacilioni are trying to reconstruct their beloved martyr. There is not yet a conclusive ending to this story. I only know that the saint will no longer be carried high over the shoulders of her chosen people, I know that Nick will return to Monacilioni and mourn the loss of the town's icon. I know that I will look upon my painting of Santa Benedetta, and think of the town that held on to its culture and spirit even when someone tried to rip it away. I know that I will not forget her, and that they never could.


End file.
